


Heat Haze

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, M/M, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 02:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: It's hot in the loft.Or at least Jim is finding it hot...





	Heat Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 548: "heat"

Jim's spent time in deserts. He's familiar with the shimmer of too-hot, too-dry air, with the way things in the distance can defy clarity even when you're looking through the scope of a sniper rifle, with the way your senses can't trust anything but what's right next to you.

He's spent time in jungles. He knows the way light sometimes has to fight its way through too-hot, too-humid air, knows the way everything can seem blurred and dulled-down by the air's thickness until only what's right next to you seems entirely real.

Right now the only thing that seems entirely real is the person who's right next to him. The rest of the loft is hazy and insubstantial, barely here at all. Too-hot, too-dry air: Jim's mouth is as dry as fuck, anyway. Too-hot, too- _humid_ air: that one's on Blair, on Blair's sweat. (Not that Jim hasn't begun to sweat a little himself.)

Too-hot, too-humid, and too-pungent air: Blair's sweat and the scent of his come. Jim's mouth goes even drier as he watches Blair unfist his just-spent dick and bring his come-covered hand to his mouth, start licking it clean, slowly.

His chest is still heaving a little. That's real; Jim's close enough to know that that's real and not just a trick of the shimmering — simmering — air around him. He's close enough to see the sweat still beading on Blair's forehead, see the trails on his chest where the hair's dampened and darkened — Blair took it slow for him, made a show of it for him, and slow always makes Blair sweat.

It makes Jim sweat, too. The collar of his T-shirt is sticking to his neck. He gives half a thought to peeling the damp cotton tee off and tossing it in a corner, but the look in Blair's eyes makes him forget he ever had a thought in his head in the first place.

The look in Blair's eyes: he's not looking at his hand, which is still streaked with come and which his tongue is still working over languorously, deliberately, almost tauntingly; he's looking right at Jim, and his eyes are dark and _real —_

Real. This is real. Blair's eyes are saying, "You want to fuck me," and "Yes," and "I want you to fuck me," and "You planning on taking all night here or what?"

(They're saying more than that, Jim knows that. They're saying the things Blair rarely says out loud — the things Jim rarely says out loud — even during sex. Especially during sex.)

Jim isn't planning on taking all night here, no. Not if the erection that's been straining at the crotch of his usually loose sweatpants since he asked Blair for this little show has anything to say about it, anyway. (And it does. It's about to have one sweet hell of a lot to say about it. Jim intends to see to that.)

So he isn't planning on taking all night, not a fucking chance. But just for a moment, this moment, with Blair's familiar body spread out in front of him — naked and beautiful and God help Jim, so very willing — with the smell of sex and sweat rising all around him, with the slowly-easing sound of Blair's breathing, of his heartbeat, filling the air….

Just for this moment, Jim lets himself know the truth. His senses aren't wrong: the loft surrounding them shimmers and blurs, insubstantial and changeable and meaningless, unreal. Reality is sprawled out next to him, his tongue tracing a last ribbon of come off his thumb, his eyes locked on Jim's.

Reality is heat. Reality is here and now. 

Reality is Blair.


End file.
